


For the World's Need

by thelightofmorning



Series: Tales of the Aurelii [14]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Adultery, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Child Abandonment, Child Death, Child Neglect, Class Issues, Corpse Desecration, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fantastic Racism, Fuck the Thalmor, Genocide, Graphic Description of Corpses, Implied/Referenced Torture, Imprisonment, Misogyny, Multi, Past Child Abuse, Politics, Religious Conflict, Self-Sacrifice, Sex Work, Slavery, War Crimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-01-29 01:38:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21402046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelightofmorning/pseuds/thelightofmorning
Summary: It has been six years since Laina South-Wind, called Ysmir, the Dragon of the North and the Kynarene, defeated Alduin and brokered a peace deal between the Empire and the Old Holds of Skyrim.Akaviria Mara Nona Medea has returned to Skyrim with an offer of her hand for Bjarni Ulfricsson so that they might unite Skyrim once more in the face of a resurgent Aldmeri Dominion.She gets Egil Ulfricsson, the zealot-priest of Meridia and the Dawn-Bringer, instead.The Heir, the Bear, the Sword-Saint, the Dawn-Bringer and the Kynarene are the heirs of their parents' shames and glories. For the long plans of the gods are coming to fruition in this time of the world's need.
Relationships: Ria/Original Nord Character(s)
Series: Tales of the Aurelii [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1485251
Comments: 57
Kudos: 46





	1. An Offer of Marriage

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, war crimes, imprisonment, misogyny, alcohol use, classism, criminal acts, slavery, religious conflict, corpse desecration, emotional trauma, child neglect, child abuse and mentions of genocide, adultery, sex work, torture, child abandonment and child death. Now we are post-canon in the Aureliiverse, more or less.

It was six years after the defeat of Alduin World-Eater and Akaviria Mara Nona Medea was glad to be back in Skyrim. Wrangling the Elder Council into line after her coronation had been hard but bringing Cyrodiil under her control had been hardest yet; renegade Stormcloaks dissatisfied with the truce came over the Jeralls, one even planning to blow up the Arena in the Imperial City; sprigs of otherwise obscure noble lines had threatened secession and rebellion; the Aldmeri Dominion lurked over the borders, ever watching for a chance to start the Great War anew. Returning to Skyrim was almost like returning to a simpler time, when she was simply Ria “I killed a bear yesterday” of the Companions.

Jarl Balgruuf was a little greyer than she recalled but still the same shrewd, hungry-eyed ruler who’d brokered a peace deal between the Imperial and Stormcloak Holds. Nelkir, his bastard son, was now Steward after Proventus Avenicci’s death; given Frothar’s joining of the Companions, it looked like Dagny (or more likely her spouse, given her spendthrift ways and selfishness) would be Jarl. Irileth the huscarl was ageless in that dour, weathered Dunmer way.

“Welcome to Dragonsreach, Your Imperial Majesty,” Balgruuf said after rising and bowing. “What brings you back to Whiterun?”

“I was thinking of giving the Ruby Throne away and becoming a Companion again,” Ria said ruefully.

Balgruuf shook his head. “I understand why you did it, but the Companions took your concealment of your true identity hard. Now no noble heir may spend more than six months at Jorrvaskr, and if they would be more than a temporary whelp, they must forswear their inheritance. Farkas decided that you’d used your association with the Companions for political gain and made the call as Harbinger.”

“I served honestly and well!” Ria snapped.

“But you didn’t tell them who you were or why you were truly there,” Irileth reminded her. “The Companions are apolitical for a reason.”

Ria took a deep breath and released her temper. She could see where Farkas was coming from.

“I’ve returned because Skyrim needs to be reunited,” she told Balgruuf.

The Jarl stroked his long goatee. “Bjarni has concluded many advantageous alliances with the Great Houses of Morrowind, several northern tribes of Blackmarsh and even a memorandum of understanding with Hammerfell. If you try to reconquer the Old Holds with a depleted Legion… It might be Ulfric’s son sitting on the Ruby Throne.”

Ria allowed herself a sour laugh. “Truth be told, Bjarni Ulfricsson wouldn’t make a bad Emperor. You tell me things I already know.”

“Then why have you come, Ria?”

She took a deep breath and released it. “Because I intend to offer him my hand in marriage.”

…

“Fuck me running!”

“I’m not sure anyone in Skyrim has the athletic or acrobatic capacities to achieve such an act, even with you,” Lleril Morvayn, former Councillor of Raven Rock and now Ambassador to the Free Holds of Skyrim, observed with typical understated Dunmer humour. On receiving the message from Akaviria, Bjarni had immediately called a meeting of his allies, and a good half-dozen races were represented in the round table in the Great Hall of the Palace of the Kings.

“She couldn’t get one brother, so she’s going after another,” Cirroc, Second-Rank Sword-Saint and the representative of the Forebears (not Ambassador, as Hammerfell didn’t officially recognise the Free Holds as an independent state yet), said sardonically.

Bjarni nodded in agreement. Cirroc was as asexual as the sword he wielded to devastating effect but that hadn’t stopped Akaviria from trying to legitimise the Mede dynasty by acquiring a Septim husband. Now she’d turned her gaze to the line of Wulfharth, further strengthened by the fact that Laina South-Wind, the current incarnation of Ysmir and the Dragon of the North, was the King of the Free Holds’ sister.

“To be fair, the woman’s trying to preserve her province,” pointed out Adril Arano, Lleril’s second. “None of us have any love for the Empire here but none of us can exactly fault her.”

Egil, Bjarni’s brother, stirred. Five years ago, during the War for the Dawn with the vampiric Clan Volkihar, he’d given his soul to Meridia and it left him… changed. Burnished golden eyes, black hair streaked with sable, skin tanned to a warm golden-brown. His Restoration spells were devastating to the undead or any unnatural creature of darkness, but he was now more certain of his rightness. Having a crusader for a brother was a damned uncomfortable thing.

“She might be offering for you, brother, but I could go in your stead,” he said quietly. “With me, she gets a priest, not a ruler – and the Free Holds may keep its freedom.”

“Let me guess, Meridia’s getting bored now we’ve wiped out every draugr in the Free Holds?” Bjarni asked amusedly.

**_“Cyrodiil is rotten with necromancers and other foul beings,”_** the Daedric Prince said from the glowing pommel of Dawnbreaker. **_“You’ve ensured My cult will always have a place in your Free Holds, so I will leave half the Auroran cavalry here as a reward. But Akaviria, for all her flaws, sees the greater threat on the horizon.”_**

“The Thalmor,” Lleril said grimly.

**_“Yes. Ysmir has been alerting various powers to the danger. I don’t know what She’s seen but… I have heard Her be called the Kynarene.”_**

Now, Bjarni wasn’t a priest, but his parents and brother had been various flavours of clergy. The Shezzarine was a mortal or semi-mortal Avatar of Shor, Shezarr or Lorkhan… That Meridia used the peculiar inflection Daedric Princes used when speaking of their equals was… telling.

“The Priests of the Reclamations – the Reclamations Themselves! – have referred to her as such,” Adril confirmed. “No wonder Laina refused secular power, if she had a sacred mission all along.”

“It explained how she was essentially able to defeat the Woodland Man,” agreed Frea, shaman of the Skaal, an Atmorani people Laina had brought across the seas five years ago after the rise and fall of Miraak. Bjarni had gladly settled them in Winterhold, giving that Hold a much needed boost. “But she is a spirit of the All-Maker, not a goddess.”

Cirroc held up his hand. “So wait, you’re saying my sister’s an Avatar of Kyne?”

“As Redguards understand it, yes,” Egil confirmed. “But we digress from the matter at hand.”

Bjarni ran his hands through his long hair. “You want to marry the Empress of Cyrodiil, Egil?”

“The heart of the world is in Cyrodiil, much as we may hate it,” Egil said softly. “This is the only way I can see to bridge the gap while maintaining the Free Holds’ independence.”

The King nodded. “Then I’ll a reply to that effect. We’ll see how she responds.”


	2. It Is Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. As promised, there’s a Dropbox link on my Tumblr (thelightofmorning) for a basic Sigdrifa follower mod. She’s not essential, so be careful if you want to keep her. It’s not entirely accurate because I honestly didn’t want to do too much work on her, lol.

It took all of Balgruuf’s discipline not to laugh at Ria’s expression when she discovered Bjarni had accepted her offer… on behalf of his brother Egil. Even after years in Skyrim, the Empress failed to appreciate the depth of Nord cunning and intelligence… or she’d forgotten the King of the Free Holds was a shrewd, diplomatic ruler in the mould of Jorunn Skald-King.

But she had no choice but to accept the match. Half the Elder Council answered to the Thalmor in one way or another and the other half were eyeing the Ruby Throne. Only in Skyrim could she find the manpower needed to prevent the inevitable Second Great War.

So it was Balgruuf played host to a royal marriage with most of Skyrim’s grandees in attendance. Laina was resplendent in black silk and what could only be cloth-of-glass by the shimmering teal, aqua and gold of her robe; Radiant Raiment continued to garb her and wherever the Dragonborn went, she was a figure of awe and fashion. She was also considered a priestess these days and so she performed the marriage in the name of Kynareth.

Egil had… changed. It was common knowledge that he’d sold his soul to Meridia (if nothing else, the shining-armoured warriors who accompanied him as his dowry and bodyguard confirmed it as much as Dawnbreaker) and so he looked like a sun-bright champion of the light. His totemic carved armour, now the main choice of the Free Holds’ officers, was embossed with suns and horses with a tawny sabre-cat fur trim. He was handsome, the Jarl of Whiterun conceded, but rigid in his posture.

Ria too wore armour, the gilded armour of an Imperial officer with the purple cloak of royalty. Her Skyforge Steel gladius hung from her belt and she’d matured into a striking if not beautiful woman.

All the Jarls of Skyrim attended. So did High Queen Elisif, her husband Torygg and her son Istlod. Catriona and Madanach of the Forsworn invited themselves. Balgruuf fancied the wind through the eaves carried the sound of Sigdrifa’s screaming.

Cirroc Sword-Saint looked more amused than anything else. His mother, now High Queen of Hammerfell after Sura-Mai’s death last year, sent some expensive gifts but no other emissary.

Laina kept the ceremony brief. No one was going to tell the Dragonborn a sermon would be appropriate to the occasion because they might just become dragon-chow. Everyone knew what happened to Galmar Stone-Fist.

Of course, the real festivities would start at the feast, where the politics would come into play.

“The Thalmor sent no representative,” Elisif noted at the high table. “Not even Ondolemar.”

“He was recalled,” Laina said shortly. “I think you’ll find Nurancar of Cyrodiil is wending his way home too.”

“They can’t possibly be ready,” Cirroc observed.

“Not yet. But it’s coming, sooner than I’d like.” There was something grim in the Dragonborn’s eyes.

“You could destroy them with an army of dragons,” Cirroc pointed out.

“And I’d be a bigger monster than Talos. That is not the way of Kyne.” Laina’s tone was final.

“And what is?” Cirroc asked.

“You’ll see.”

…

Nurancar, both Elder and Younger, had unlikely accidents in County Bruma. Snow and stone were treacherous things, particularly if one was prone to gloating over the icy ruins of a long-defeated foe.

Marius knew his time had come. The long vigil of the last Blade was over and all that remained was to make a good end of it. So he donned the long-hidden set of armour from the days of the Oblivion Crisis, allowed his hair to grow free to be bound into the traditional topknot, and honed the edge of his dai-katana to a blue-silver gleam.

It was time.

Marius had been a Grandmaster of the Blades once and knew all the secrets of the Akaviri. He wrapped up the turquoise silken banner of the Dragonborn (had Kin-Tatsuo known his many-times great-granddaughter would be aligned to Kyne?) and had a mildly nervous dragon named Yolmiinax take it north. The red silk banner of Kin-Tatsuo he kept for himself. For the oath of the Dragonguard was not yet done, though the Blades had gone to their rest.

It was Kin-Tatsuo who joined him first. The Golden Dragon hadn’t been Dovahkiin himself but his daughter by an Altmer concubine married a bastard of Reman Cyrodiil’s. Their daughter had married Versidue-Shaie’s half-human bastard son and from that match came Aurelia Ralinde.

A bastard line of dragon-blood but a line of dragon-blood all the same.

“You took your time,” the ancient Akaviri warlord noted.

“It took some time to make preparations,” Marius observed as he stared down at the Thalmor facility. “Will the others come?”

“They are already here.” Kin-Tatsuo’s grin was fierce. “We will take the heads of these elves who would destroy the world.”

Marius smiled grimly. “So we shall.”

He fixed the red silk banner to his back and lifted his sword. The steely rasp of many ghostly katanas followed.

“Jūden!”

It was time.


	3. A Successful Marriage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism. Updates will be slow on this story as I’m going past the ‘canon’ I’d decided and so it will be more episodic than a novel.

“How is marriage treating you?”

Ria looked up at the woman they called the Kynarene. Egil’s half-sister had changed over the past six years and not just spiritually. The Empress fancied she saw the outline of scales in the shadows of the jaw and hollow of the throat, the golden stain to her blue-green eyes not unlike the fiery orbs of a dragon, heard a hint of rumble to an already low, husky voice. From all reports and observations, her five children were human enough… but Laina had ancient blood on all sides of her ancestry, divine blood on both sides of the Aedra-Daedra divide if that was how you reckoned things. She wasn’t human, not entirely so… and maybe she had never been.

“Egil and I suit each other better than I thought,” Ria admitted after a moment’s thought. “He won’t be winning praise from Dibella or Mara as a lover and husband but I think we’ll manage.”

“Bjarni’s shrewder than many give him credit for,” Laina observed as she looked over Whiterun from the Great Porch of Dragonsreach. “A marriage made solely for political gain rarely works. My parents are the prime example of that. But Ulfric and Sigdrifa’s marriage worked because they had no illusions about the other, they were prepared to compromise, and they were very good friends before and after marriage.”

Ria never expected to be discussing the dead rebels as an example of a good arranged marriage… but on reflection, Laina was right. “How do you know all of this?”

“Bjarni, Egil and to a certain extent, Galmar. My mother didn’t hate my father for his adultery; she hated him for the humiliation of it being so _blatant._ Galmar and Ulfric were an established pair beforehand, and so that freed Mother from having to give a damn about his emotional needs beyond that of a friend.” Laina exhaled harshly. “There were political elements to mine and Argis’ union too. I’m from one royal lineage of the Reach and he’s from another. But we cared for each other before we worried about that and afterwards, we built ourselves a good life.”

“So what are you saying?” Ria asked, confusedly.

“Better a marriage of compromise and friendship than one built from passionate feelings when politics come into it,” Laina said dryly. “Egil might have a stick up his arse, but he’s basically a good person. You could have done a lot worse – like Bjarni, for instance. I love my brother very much, but you need someone with a certain rigidity to balance the Cyrod flexibility, or you two would find yourselves justifying all sorts of atrocity.”

The Kynarene turned to the door. “Bjarni would have made a good Emperor… if he’d been ruling on his own. With you, it would have been disastrous. Trust in my seeing, if you don’t trust your brother-in-law’s shrewdness.”

Ria ruminated on those words as she joined Egil for dinner. In a few days they’d be returning to Cyrodiil with her Penitus Oculatus and his Auroran cavalry. His unyielding sternness would make for a good bulwark against the machinations of the Elder Council.

When she told him what Laina had said, he gave one of his rare chuckles. “If anyone knows what _not_ to do in an arranged marriage, it’d be her,” he agreed. “Bjarni shares a similar insight into people. I envy them that understanding, sometimes. People don’t always follow what is right and logical.”

“Tell me about it,” she said with a groan. “Wait until you meet the Elder Council…”

…

“You’re talking treason,” grated Marcus Tullius, General of her Imperial Majesty’s Legions and current Regent of the Ruby Throne in her absence. The old campaigner hadn’t been happy with all the agreements that led to a split Skyrim but after the devastation of the dragons and the civil war, he couldn’t disagree with the decision. In a way, he admired Bjarni Ulfricsson as a worthy opponent and was relieved Egil would be a weapon to his hand instead of someone else.

“The Empress has married the Daedric champion son of an avowed rebel!” exclaimed Justine Motierre, the last of the illustrious but widely disliked cousins of the late Titus Mede.

“And half of what led to it was because your idiot brother used Thalmor money to have the Emperor assassinated,” observed Arch-Mage Oronrel of the Synod in his acidic tones.

“What was the other half?” asked Prudentia, the current High Prelate of the Eight Divines.

“The Aurelii,” Oronrel admitted. “The Madgoddess must be laughing at the way things have fallen out.”

Tullius allowed himself a wry chuckle. “We should be grateful Laina was magnanimous,” he told his fellow Councillors. “She could have made herself or any one of her brothers the new inheritor of the Ruby Throne… but she didn’t.”

“Laina has been called to higher things,” Prudentia said quietly. “She girds herself for a higher war.”

“You needn’t mince words,” Oronrel said bluntly. “The plans of the Thalmor are known to all of those familiar with the higher arts.”

Justine scowled. “We have a treaty with them!”

“We have it on good authority that they tried to make Ulfric a quisling to bleed the Legion dry in Skyrim,” Tullius reminded her. “They plan to destroy the world – I’m not sure how they’ll manage that-“

“Until now, Shor/Lorkhan has been the heart of the world,” Oronrel interrupted. “Every Shezzarine has been an attempt to prevent Nirn from unravelling. But the Lorkhan-as-deceiver factions of the mer have made observations over the course of millennia and so they can… make plans to counteract Shor’s influence.”

“But they don’t count on the other Aedra,” Prudentia said quietly. “Or the actions of powers outside our mortal ken. Like the Madgoddess or Meridia.”

“Or the Redguard deities, some of whom may be separate beings to the Aedra,” Oronrel agreed.

“We’re trusting the _Daedra_ now?” Justine asked, aghast.

“I’m getting a strong sense of ‘enemy of my enemy’ from the High Prelate of Kynareth,” Prudentia said calmly. “Oblivion, is, after all a tedious place without Nirn to amuse the Princes.”

This was getting all too theologically complex for Tullius. “So what can we do in the meantime?” he asked.

“Pray,” Oronrel said without irony. “Because if we don’t… the gods mightn’t be strong enough to stop what’s coming.”


	4. What Family is For

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, imprisonment, torture, genocide and religious conflict. Loads of Redguard political canon!

It was good to be home.

Cirroc dismounted from his sturdy Nord-bred horse and allowed it to be led away by a groom after a final pat. The High Queen’s Palace was a grandiose name for his mother’s airy, ornate house of bleached pine and birch but one could hardly refer to it as anything else. Sura-Mai had bequeathed his throne to Iszara-Safiya out of recognition that with a new political landscape in Tamriel, someone with an almost direct tie to the Dragonborn would make for an excellent choice. The world was inching towards war and Hammerfell intended to be in the thick of it.

His mother’s heir and cousin Dalila, the new Lady of Elinhir, greeted him at the front door with her Crown husband N’dela. The Prime Minister was a Lhotunic but otherwise, the High Queen had balanced Forebear and Crown in an almost equal arrangement. In the dual-bladed style of the Alik’r, one sword must compensate for the weaknesses of the other, and Safiya was a mistress of that style.

“Welcome home, Cirroc Ansei,” Dalila greeted with a smile. “You have been long gone.”

“I noticed,” Cirroc observed wryly. “Have you tasted Nord cooking? I thought I was back in the cloister doing penance.”

Dalila laughed; she was a noted gourmand. “We have a pupil of the Gourmet working here and he has a way with salmon that’s enough to bring tears of joy to anyone’s eyes.”

Cirroc grimaced. “No salmon, please. It’s the staple food in Eastmarch.”

“Worry not. It’s whitefish tonight,” N’dela remarked in his deep basso. “Have you heard of the Empress’ marriage?”

They entered his mother’s cool home. “Heard? I was there. Bjarni’s a smart man, marrying off his zealot little brother to Akaviria and having the Dragonborn perform the marriage. Not too many people are going to argue with an Avatar of Kyne.”

“A Nord cannot be an Avatar!” N’dela exclaimed, shocked.

“Look, it’s the nearest word in our language to explain what the hell my sister’s become,” Cirroc told him acerbically. “I get the impression that Talos was an up-jumped Avatar of Sep, which explains why he wanted to conquer the damn world. Laina’s not interested in conquering, but that’s because Kyne only kills for sustenance or survival.”

“There’s a difference between Kynareth and Kyne?” Dalila asked quickly, breaking the tension.

“Oh yes. Kynareth is sunshine and bunny rabbits. Kyne was the one who gave Nords the Thu’um. She’s the goddess of death, rebirth, life and the storm among traditionalist Nords.” Cirroc shrugged helplessly. “Laina told me that mortals divide the divine into parts we can understand and that all the gods are beyond true understanding. But she’s an Avatar, as we understand it, and I’m not going to argue with her on that.”

N’dela grunted but said nothing. Even the best of Crowns suffered from a bad case of head-up-arse, as Bjarni would have put it.

Unsurprisingly, Safiya was in the weaving room, strong brown hands busy as she wove cotton into a rich brocade. Cirroc had set up an accord between Balgruuf, Argis of the Reach and his mother, one which enriched them considerably as the plains of Whiterun were eminently suited to growing the fluffy white fibre and the Reach provided all kinds of exotic dyes. “Welcome home,” she said as she moved the shuttle back and forth with a clatter.

“Thank you,” Cirroc said with a smile. “It’s good to be back.”

“I imagine it is, my Ansei son. You have served in a role not yours for many more years than we anticipated.” Safiya tied off the shutter for the day. “But now you are home and there is a role for you here.”

Cirroc inclined his head. “I will serve, Queen-Mother.”

“Will you? I hope you’ve learned something of temperance and patience over the past six years, for there is a need for a general who is familiar with how Nords and Cyrods fight,” Safiya told him with a sigh.

“I don’t recommend going to war with them,” Cirroc warned softly. “Akaviria is a competent leader while her new husband Egil makes for an excellent cavalry commander. Bjarni is as good a general as he is a king… and that’s not counting Laina, who may very well stop any army trying to invade the Reach by calling down a storm with three Words. I saw it, myself, on the Sea of Ghosts when an organised pirate fleet went rogue.”

“I am many things, my son, but a conqueror isn’t one of them,” Safiya said dryly. “The Aldmeri Dominion’s been sniffing along the southern coast again, probably as a show of strength after their great prison facility in Cyrodiil was destroyed by, I quote, ‘the ghosts of the Blades’.”

Cirroc sighed. “I was hoping we’d have a couple more years. Skyrim and Cyrodiil aren’t recovered and High Rock’s too fragmented to unify against an external invasion.”

“N’dela, are the Children of Satakal rebuilt enough to buy us those few more years?” Safiya asked the Crown bluntly.

“If we are sparing with their use…” N’dela rubbed his chin. “I’d heard of this attack on Blue Carp Prison. They say an Altmer with an Akaviri hairstyle led the charge.”

“Marius Aurelius!” Cirroc exclaimed.

“I didn’t know there were Altmer among the Aurelii,” Safiya observed, wrinkling her delicate brow.

“Kin-Tatsuo had an Imperial wife – from which my line hails – and an Altmer concubine – from which Marius’ line hails from,” Cirroc explained. “Laina taught me a lot about Father’s family history.”

Safiya smiled broadly. “Well, that makes Marius a cousin to us. It would be _most_ proper if we were to offer a distant cousin somewhere to stay… in return for a few small tasks that would no doubt be a pleasure for him to perform.”

N’dela smirked. “What else are family for?”


	5. Pillar of Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of genocide, war crimes and religious conflict. I’ve done a massive time-skip because I want to introduce characters like Rusgeir and Bjarka Bear-Born.

Years passed.

Bjarka Bear-Born was nearly seventeen when the first dragon was found butchered in the Jeralls. The local Priest of Arkay confirmed, on seeing the creature’s corpse, that it had been done with elven weapons. Her cousin Jarl Rusgeir of Falkreath Hold exploded with predictable fury and put a bounty on every captured Thalmor agent in Skyrim. Rich from the silver trade to the north, the spice trade to the west, and the Cyrod trade to the south, Falkreath certainly had the money to finance it, but King Bjarni threw money into the pot. The uneasy pact between the Free Holds and the Imperial Holds had settled into a slightly uncomfortable peace enforced by the Dragonborn and her recognised dominion over dragonkind.

Bjarka didn’t need to be a Telvanni to figure out the Thalmor were trying to provoke Laina South-Wind into attacking them, so they could claim the moral high ground in what was shaping up to be the second Great War.

Bjarka didn’t need to be a Telvanni to figure out that Laina, weathered by years of abuse from the Empire and the wisdom of a hundred dead dragons, was beyond the petty provocations of a desperate Dominion.

Bjarka didn’t need to be a Telvanni to figure out that the Dragonborn was completely unsurprised by the Thalmor’s actions when informed of them.

So she took herself to the Reach and climbed the steps to Sky Haven Temple, where the Dragonborn had set up a school that combined dragonlore and Blades lore into a religious order that venerated Kyne. The Skyguard was open to all races, but Reachfolk and Nords dominated. Still, even with the Reach’s religious eclecticism, she didn’t expect to find a Hagraven educating students about Conjuration in the great hall.

“Class dismissed,” the bird-woman croaked on seeing her.

The students scattered in a chattering mass as the Hag strode over and folded a surprised Bjarka into a fierce embrace. “Great-granddaughter!” she crowed in joy. “I was wondering if I’d ever get to meet you.”

Bjarka didn’t need to be a Telvanni to realise that this was Catriona, the mother of her father’s mother.

“Umm, hi,” she said nervously, remembering tales of heart-eating Hagravens from her father’s veterans.

“Heard all the gruesome stories, have you?” Catriona asked with a sigh.

“…Yes,” Bjarka admitted softly.

“I’ve never eaten a heart in my life. Nords make me sick.” The Hagraven stepped back. “Here to see your aunt?”

“I… yes… about the dead dragon.”

“Yolmiinax.” That was Laina as she entered the Great Hall. “He was young as dovahhe went. Young and daring.”

Twenty years had passed and Bjarka had seen her father age and even a few lines appear on her mother Brelyna Maryon’s face, but Laina still looked to be her children’s older sister. Stories had gone around that she was as timeless as a dragon but Bjarka had thought them myths. Laina was a powerful mage even without the dragon-blood but she was still mortal, right?

Bjarka didn’t need to be a Telvanni to realise that Laina was truly a dragon in a mortal skin.

“The Thalmor are making their move and they’re hoping to sway the Cyrods who’ve grown up under the White-Gold Concordat to their side by provoking me to attack,” the Dragonborn continued. “It will end as it began at the White-Gold Tower, the Heart of the World.”

The young Dunmer gasped as she understood Laina’s reference. The Towers! Red Mountain, the Throat of the World, Direnni Tower-

“You understand. I expected a student of Neloth’s to do so,” Laina said quietly. “Of my family, you’re the best mage.”

“I’d be a poor Telvanni if I wasn’t,” Bjarka said shakily.

“Neloth might even be as talented as he thinks he is,” Catriona drawled sardonically. “But there is much he doesn’t know about the earthbones.”

“I don’t understand,” Bjarka said softly.

Laina’s expression was remote. “You will. Your first lessons will be with Granma. She laid the foundation of all I know.”

Bjarka didn’t need to be a Telvanni to understand that she’d just been handed her life’s task.

…

Rusgeir the Titan had finally broken the long line of Kreathling Jarls with black hair and blue-green eyes… by dint of being wheat-blond like his father Argis the Bulwark. Nenya had gladly handed over the Hold to him at the age of nineteen and settled back into the role of being Steward. He was called Titan because he was as big as any Nord could be without being an actual giant, standing three inches on his already-massive uncle Bjarni and inviting comparisons to the ancient Atmorani of Ysgramor and his ilk. He just joked that he had to grow so tall to see over the many mountains of the Reach.

He was still four inches shorter than Marius Aurelius. Being looked down on was a new experience for Rusgeir.

“The skulls are a little old but indisputably Altmer,” he drawled, studying the pile of bleached skulls. Marius and his ghost-Akaviri had been very, very busy over the years. “The problem is that I can’t hand over that much raw cash. I don’t have a lot of liquid equity at the moment.”

“I understand. I can accept payment in kind.” Marius smiled slightly. “We’ve grown, you see, with recruits from the Tamusen, the Dawn’s Rising. I need somewhere to put them.”

Rusgeir sat back in the Stag Throne with a grin. “I have a nice isolated fortress in the Jeralls. Sadly, it’s got an infestation problem.”

Marius shrugged. “Balgeir the Bloody won’t be much of a problem for me. He’s an amateur compared to the Dremora I killed in the Oblivion Crisis.”

“You clear it, it’s yours,” Rusgeir promised.

Family should, after all, help each other out.

…

Ria was forty-five when she realised she loved her husband.

It was somewhere between the birth of their first child and their first grandchild that she understood. Maria Medea had married the dashing grandson of the old Legion stalwart, creatively called Marcus Tullius like his father and grandfather, at the age of eighteen and their grandson Atrebus had been born nine months to the wedding day. Seeing Egil cradle his grandson, silver mingled with the sun-streaked sable of his hair, and she knew that Bjarni had known what kind of husband would do her good only too well.

It was Atrebus’ naming day when the Aldmeri Dominion’s ambassador presented his gift.

Five gilded dragon skulls.

“We demand, your Imperial Majesty, that you bring the draconic scourge to its knees,” Halyon Arencado said icily. “The Dragonborn refuses to do anything. They have been hunting in Dominion territory and I can only assume it is deliberate because they’ve been eating Thalmor officials!”

“What can I say?” laughed Ralof Storm-Hammer, the Free Holds’ ambassador. “They love purely bred meat!”

Egil, stern zealot that he was, chuckled richly and put Atrebus back in his cradle. “In the Free Holds, they have permission to hunt and kill marauders, necromancers, that sort of thing. Are you sure there’s a difference between said Thalmor officials and bandits?”

Halyon inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. “Your sister should bring them to heel!”

“In Skyrim, we believe dragons were the first living things created after the Towers were set in place by the gods,” Egil told the Ambassador quietly. “Have you considered that maybe the gods are content with the way things are and they’re trying to send you a message?”

“What kind of message would that be?” Halyon asked acidly.

Ria smiled. “We like the world as it is. Stop trying to end it, Sir Ambassador.”

“I didn’t realise the Empress and her Daedra-worshipping spouse had a direct line to the gods,” Halyon said flatly.

“No, but my sister – the Dragonborn – does,” Egil observed.

“So you will do nothing?”

“I’ll send a very sternly worded letter to Paarthurnax at High Hrothgar,” Ria promised quietly. “That’s all I can do, even under the White-Gold Concordat.”

Halyon’s expression grew grim. “Then you leave me no choice.”

Ria had forgotten Halyon was a very talented mage as well as a diplomat as he swung his arms up and around, gathering magicka, but Egil hadn’t.

The husband she loved stepped into the radius of the spell, blazing white-gold as the sun, and the man and mer combined into a blazing pillar of sun-bright light that reached from earth to heaven.

“Let the Towers be reborn,” the pillar of light said in Egil’s voice just before it expanded in a flash of brilliance.

When it faded, all that remained of the husband she loved was a scorched mark on the White-Gold Tower’s floor.

Fuck the Towers. Ria wanted Egil back.


	6. The Rising Dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and mentions of genocide, war crimes and religious conflict.

General Rikke was nearly eighty and she knew this would be her last campaign.

She glanced over at High King Istlod II as he rode easily on one of Solitude’s famed gold-coated, silver-maned horses. Elisif had stepped down two years ago when it became clear a war was on the horizon and Istlod’s first call was to marry Catrin, one of the Dragonborn’s daughters – and a Princess of the Reach as the hill-clans reckoned it. This Great War was going to be very different because the Empire now had its own batch of witch-guerrillas to match the Altmer sorcerers and the Bosmer irregulars. The Khajiit were too busy fighting a civil war between the Mane’s loyalists and the Dominion-subverted kings to participate.

This time around, they weren’t alone. The Great Houses of Morrowind and the Argonians of Blackmarsh had sent soldiers under the command of King Bjarni of the Free Holds, whose shrewd political marriage to the heir of House Telvanni had reformed the ancient Ebonheart Pact. Their turquoise-eyed Dunmer daughter Bjarka Bear-Born would one day rule the magocratic Great House… unless she chose to continue studying at Sky Haven Temple. The Telvanni could be like that.

Ralof Storm-Hammer and his children had provided the Nord heirs needed for the Free Holds, because even Bjarni couldn’t budge that requirement. Rules could be bent for a regency or at least a human Jarl, but no mer and no beast-kin were allowed to rule over Nords. The Stormcloak racism lingered in places despite Bjarni’s best efforts to promote a more cosmopolitan version of Talos.

Rikke looked up to see Odahviing flying overhead, Laina South-Wind on his back. They didn’t have dragons last time and even though several had been killed by the Dominion, there were plenty still happy to rain fire down on the Thalmor camp. It was only Laina’s restraint that kept the flying lizards from crossing the seas to lay waste to the Summerset Isles. “I’m not the Second Coming of Talos,” was Ysmir’s terse response. “I am the Agent of Kyne. And Kyne has Her plans in place.”

Somewhere ahead was Akaviria and her kin-in-law Marcus Tullius, who’d inherited his father’s tactical acumen. The Empress’ resolve was diamond-hard in its desire for vengeance. She would be the point of a lance directed at the heart of the Dominion forces already landing on the Gold Coast. Justine Motierre had proclaimed herself Empress, backed by Thalmor supporters. Ria’s kingdom was in jeopardy because of the Altmer’s long plans.

But they weren’t the only ones to have planned. Tullius had put as much as he could in place before he died and Bjarni had forwarded all of Sigdrifa’s theoretical plans to Rikke. The last sort-of Shieldmaiden of Talos had laid the groundwork of their campaign with Cirroc Sword-Saint, who’d shown surprising military acumen, Marcus Junior and Bjarni Ulfricsson. The Dragonborn’s only contribution had been a promise that someone would hold the Altmer in place long enough for the army to reach the Gold Coast.

Near to the mustering area, they were met by rows of hard-faced Altmer, Bosmer and even Khajiit under the command of an albino Altmer with elaborate black, grey and silver armour, his banner the golden rising half-sun on an ochre-red background of the Tamusen, the rebellion known as the Dawn’s Rising. Across his back was slung an elaborate golden bow that shone with similar light to Dawnbreaker, now carried by Darrien Gautier, an Auroran of Meridia who sometimes served as Her hand on the mortal plane.

Odahviing landed between the two forces and Laina slid off his back, cloth-of-glass robe flashing blue-green-gold in the sunlight of late afternoon. “Gelebor!” she exclaimed in surprise. “What are you doing outside of Auriel’s Chantry?”

“Auriel may believe this world to be a broken, sad place, but He is not best pleased with those who profess to act in His name,” the albino mer observed grimly. “I am surprised to see the Dragonborn shocked. I thought your kind could see the end of all paths?”

“I never bothered to cultivate the prophetic gifts of the Septims,” Laina said acerbically. “I know my destiny. Why would I wish to know more?”

Gelebor’s smile was thin. “Few are so blessed… or so wise. Auriel’s Bow has sung and most of the Dominion navy was sunk. The few remnants were snapped up by those Yokudans and maybe one in ten ships has reached the shore. It is still a formidable force, supplemented as it is by the Legions loyal to this puppet-Empress of the Thalmor’s.”

“They were nothing but a distraction for the true force,” Laina said grimly. “But they are a dangerous distraction regardless. I won’t ask you to make Auri-El’s eye weep for His fallen children again. I am not Ysgramor, to commit genocide because some of a race are my enemy.”

Gelebor inclined his head. “I only ask that me and mine may take the remnant Altmer under our wing, to show them the true path off the mortal coil. The Psijics have been quite helpful in that regard; I had thought the way lost to our kin.”

“You’re not an Altmer?” Istlod asked in surprise.

“I am Knight-Paladin Gelebor, one of the last untainted snow elves, who you call the Falmer and we call the Betrayed,” was the pale mer’s response. “The Champion of Meri-Dya and the Chosen of Kyn-ha-reth lent me some aid during that unfortunate Volkihar affair ten years ago.”

“And you’ve paid the debt,” Laina assured him.

“I will still join the fight. Marius would be displeased if I missed it,” Gelebor said amusedly.

“You and Marius? Good! He deserves some joy in his life.” Laina actually smiled, reminding Rikke of the young sorceress who’d joined Torygg’s court.

“I believe your son Rusgeir was a little disappointed, but the kinship of the two branches of the Aurelii was a little uncomfortably close for Marius,” Gelebor chuckled. “I am sworn to sire no children, not celibacy, after all.”

Rikke was still trying to process the fact that Gelebor was a real life snow elf before her brain got to the fact he was apparently in a relationship with Marius. She supposed legends really did pair off, didn’t they?

Then she shook her head. It was time to fight for the world.


	7. The Plan All Along

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, self-sacrifice and mentions of genocide, war crimes and religious conflict. Theme song for this chapter is Live’s ‘Lightning Crashes’.

Ancano had shown them the way. No doubt he would greet them when they rejoined the Aedra among the immortal stars of a deathless eternity.

The Towers had been carefully sabotaged by the centuries-long manipulation of prophetic events. Some of their own thin-blooded kindred had unknowingly assisted, like Marius the Eternal Champion, Ralinde the Blades Agent and Irileth the Nerevarine. When they were freed from the confines of the Dreamsleeve, they would be welcomed among the gods and forgiven their ignorance. Lorkhan’s trick had deceived many, many of the et’Ada.

The Thalmor had been cruel, yes. But they were trying to end the cycle of death and rebirth for millions of entrapped souls. Even beast-folk would be free of the world. All would thank them when the scales fell from their eyes in the glories of a deathless eternity.

Halyon had died in the hallowed halls of the White-Gold Tower. Thousands of mer died on the shores of the Gold Coast at the hands of ignorant, deceived lesser cousins. All would be honoured, even if only by this small group of specially trained geomancers.

The White-Gold Tower was the heart of the world. A blow struck here would unmoor the earthbones and shatter the rigid confines of reality. Freed from the flesh, the Aedric souls of all mortal life would return to Aetherius. It was a grand day for all of Nirn.

The few humans left to safeguard the Tower during the Empress’ absence were slain swiftly and silently. The small group hurried into the centre of the Tower, where the blackened marble marked where Halyon died. They took their places quickly and laid out the black soul gems containing ten thousand harvested souls from every race in Tamriel. They’d had to travel a fair bit and even engage in necromancy for some of them. The demands of a greater cause.

The geomancers drew on the soul-strength in the gems and the power rose in a shining silver spiral. Soon, soon, soon!

They felt the other Towers, deactivated and still intact, in the distance as power surged forth. Just a delicate twist here and a tap there…

It was somewhere during the connection to the Towers that the chief geomancer realised something was wrong.

It took him vital moments to realise that the earthbones were awake… and very, very angry.

By the time the handsome Redguard in the simple crimson robes of a Sword-Saint stepped into the chamber, he was too trapped within the magic he’d raised to even cry a warning. Somewhere in late middle age for a human, the Redguard was still spry as he danced among the soul gems, a sword of misty white-gold light flickering like flame across the heath as it severed lines of power. Desperately, the geomancer threw simple Destruction spells at him and the Redguard just laughed, his sword of light throwing them right back.

It was too late to stop the spell. It wasn’t meant to be ended once it begun.

With a faint sense of horror, the geomancer felt a searing pain in his chest, and the last thing he sensed was the sudden explosion of energy that sent him into a darkness worse than death.

…

Cirroc was probably the best Sword-Saint since Frandar Hunding himself.

Of course he was. After all, his sister was the living Avatar of the Storm-Goddess, his father had been the Voice of Satakal, and his mother was the High Queen of Hammerfell.

It had been fitting that Laina entrusted this mission to him. No one else could have pulled it off.

With the death of the Thalmor mages, the power in the White-Gold Tower was uncontrollable, contrails of white-gold light streaking through the marble. Unrestrained, they would tear the world apart.

Cirroc took a deep breath, grasped his spirit sword in both hands, and invoked the final form of the sword-singer’s arsenal. Beside him, he could see the shadowy form of A’Tor wield the Soul Sword.

_“Crown and Forebear,”_ said the prince amusedly in his deep voice. _“Pankratosword?”_

“Of course,” Cirroc confirmed. “There is nothing the sword of the Ansei cannot cut.”

As one they struck.

…

_“GOL QETH HAAS!”_

For the first time since the creation of the firmament, creation itself rang like a bell with the Words from one Voice.

_EARTH BONE HEALTH._

It was something like the First Shout that brought the world into being. It was certainly the Last Shout spoken by the Dragonborn.

Laina South-Wind. Kah-Lah-Nah. Koor-Lah-Noor. Aurelia Callaina. Wife. Woman. Orphan. Child. Grandchild. Last Dragonborn. Last Septim. Last of the Aurelii.

Witch. Warrior. Healer. Priestess. Princess. Empress. Thief. Assassin. Farmer. Blade. Avatar.

All the possibilities of her life coalesced into one shining strand, woven by the only Jill to ever wear a mortal skin. Minute-mender. Probability plucked from the winds of time to be shaped into a patch to mend the world. Threads from Aetherius and even select domains of Oblivion. The Madgoddess threw Jyggalag into the mix with a mad merry smile and Malacath’s hammer Volendrung beat the Daedric Prince of Order’s power into a wire fine as steel and strong as hope. Hircine, the Three Good Daedra, Nocturnal and Sanguine sacrificed lesser aspects of Themselves; they’d been smarter than the Aedra, who gave Their all, after all. Meridia had already laid the foundation.

Lorkhan had shaped the world. But it had been Kyne who shaped the air, the first part of Nirn, and Her tears that nurtured the world after the et’Ada murdered Him. Kyne was the warrior-widow, the mother of man and mer and beast, the storm and the wind and the fury.

It was _not_ for the slayers of Lorkhan to decide the world’s fate and so Her long plan came to fruition.

If other gods wanted to play in the sandbox, They could damn well help keep it clean.

You never missed or noticed the air until it was gone.

The Shezzarines had failed to keep the world from falling apart. But the bulk of the Kynarene’s power could.

There was enough, just enough, left over after the Shout for Kyne to gently return to a fleshy envelope once more. One born to a kind family with a comfortable lifestyle. Nord, of course. She just really wasn’t Cyrod or Breton material and the Yokudan gods were a bit touchy if She interfered in Their people.

In the camp of the Grand Allied Army, a baby’s cry rang out as the last echoes of the Dragonborn’s Shout faded away. It was small, it was weak… it was mortal. As the Dragonborn had ever wished to be.

Her family called her Hope.


	8. Epilogue: The World Is Alright

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of… well, probably everything that happened in this. For the curious, there’s something of a belief in certain strains of Norse paganism that people can be reborn in their family bloodlines… so hey, I ran with it. My story, my rules.

Marius rested his woodcutter’s axe across his shoulders as numerous mer and a scattering of humans and Khajiit laboured in the Forgotten Vale below to raise the palisade around a new village. The Psijics had emerged from Artaeum to help rehabilitate the remnant Thalmor and that required resources. Even mages couldn’t live on air alone.

Years had passed and the events of what bards called the Tales of the Aurelii had become the stuff of myth and legend. It was probably a good thing was no longer around, because the worship of her as the Last Dragonborn would have driven her to demonstrate a wrath worthy of Aurelia Northstar. But mortals did what mortals did and gods knew she seemed as divine as Talos the Last Shezzarine after all.

Marius was the last person to remember the scared big-eyed girl who’d he’d found in the ruins of Cloud Ruler Temple.

He smiled as Gelebor approached. Of all the things he expected to find, love wasn’t one of them.

But it was. And while the world wasn’t always peaceful, here in the Forgotten Vale it was.

“I’m sorry for bothering you, but we’ve got _another_ student from the Bards College,” Gelebor told him apologetically, pointing to a black-haired girl. “This one wants to learn about the Tales of the Aurelii ‘from the source’.”

“I never wrote any of them,” Marius said with a sigh, lowering the axe. “You can blame Viarmo for that.”

“I did,” the girl said in a low pleasant voice. “Father said he never got it quite right.”

“Do you have a name or do I call you ‘eleventy-seven-hundredth bardic apprentice to come bother me’?” Marius asked amusedly.

The girl smiled. “My name is Hope Istlodsdottir.”

Oh Lord, she was Laina’s granddaughter. He could see the resemblance in the nose. All of Laina’s children had the damned nose they could use as a field-plough in times of emergency.

Marius reached for some firewood. “I hope you don’t mind if I work while we talk.”

Hope chuckled. “You chop the wood, I’ll stack it.”

Marius Aurelius, the Last Blade, laughed with unfettered joy. The world was finally alright again.


	9. Afterword

Well, folks, it's done. The 'canon' of the Aurelii, after about six years of multiple deletions, rewrites and lore changes, has finally been finished.

I probably could have written the ending better. But 2019 took a look at the previous six years and said 'Hold my beer' for sheer reeling from disaster to disaster that left me with a permanently damaged arm and a maxed out credit card. On the upside, I raised my GPA to 5.8 (my Aussie university has GPAs up to 7.0), I moved to a new apartment and I bought my first new fridge this year.  
  
I couldn't have finished this series without my readers. Your kudos, comments and feedback gave me the will to power through various issues.  
  
I'm tired. I'm probably a bit burned out. But I have, forever and aye, finished the Tales of the Aurelii.  
  
There will still be AUs. Calla, Aina, Lia and all the various iterations of my OCs want their time in the limelight.  
  
But the canon is now settled.  
  
Thank you for reading and reviewing.

**Author's Note:**

> As promised, there’s a Dropbox link on my Tumblr (thelightofmorning) for a basic Sigdrifa follower mod. She’s not essential, so be careful if you want to keep her. It’s not entirely accurate because I honestly didn’t want to do too much work on her, lol.


End file.
